Mr. Venkatesh Raman's gate is a small one.
There's a jasmine creeper growing beside it,
a coconut tree on one side.
On the left of the gate
(Where a compound wall once was)
is an all glass facade.
Inside, haute couture.
The designer's name in fancy lettering
neon lit on a board above:
Laila's creations.
Once Mr. Raman had a sprawling bungalow.
On Thursday evenings the scent of Kanakambaram flowers,
Jasmine, and incense
Would whift out of#122 100ft road Indiranagar.
Inside, Mrs Raman (Kamakshi)
and her bhajan group
would sing to lord Shiva, Ganesha and a thousand gods.
For good measure, Jesus and Allah too.
Sanatan Dharma, she would say.
The Ramans would always sit as family
for breakfast and dinner.
Steam soft idlis and tangy fresh chutney,
four course dinner
sambar, rice just right.
Mr. Raman took his sacred thread seriously
and would despair over changing times,
increasing disregard for traditions,
Muslims and Christians taking over his neighbourhood,
his granddaughter marrying
a low born
and leaving for SE Asia.
Not America, Canada or Australia.
Mr.Raman's neighborhood was changing.
'One up Pub, Mohandas Retail, La Pizzeria
One stop furnitures, Chai and Chat
had taken away the Kamat, the Subramaniam, the Jacob and the Narayanan homes.
Mr. Raman was not like that, he said.
'That and all I will not do', he said.
As glass replaced brick, red oxide floors made way for tiles, one bungalow at a time.
One day, Mr. Raman was made an offer
too tempting to refuse.
One half of his home turned to glass
he could keep the other half.
Family run designer clothes business.
Brahmin family, even though, alas
Laila (daughter in Law) is Catholic.
Mr. Raman has made his peace
through sips of filter coffee.
He sits on his teak wood chair,
looks out of his (now smaller) gate
at 100ft road and says
'Everything is fated'.
